Boletarian Titans
by The Overscore
Summary: Darkness, power, insanity and filth; if brought together, evil takes hold and demons are born. And when Boletaria makes demons, Boletaria doesn't mess around.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in Demon's Souls. Do not sue me.**

**A/N: **_I've always wanted to contribute to the Demon's Souls fandom; there is so much potential for this game to have new boundaries crossed and new worlds explored. But yo... WHAT'S WITH THE PITIFUL NUMBER OF FICS THIS FANDOM HAS?! Sure, there's a number of golden ones in here, but man. More content! That's what I want. Hopefully of good quality lol__. Ehh, I guess I'm just running my mouth; I dunno what this fandom needs! I guess it's fine the way it is, but having more stories to read never hurt anyone, right? ...Anyway,__ this is the start of a little project I wanted to do. _If I ever finish this fic, I plan to have it resemble a complete set of one-shots based off of the bosses of Demon's Souls. Hopefully. I don't remember when I came up with this idea, but it has always been lurking in my mind, so after pulling an all-nighter for no reason at all, I got down to writing something and this is the first thing that came out. I hope you enjoy! :)

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Kill, kill, kill. It was all he had ever known. Killing brought release. It took the edge off the anguish and blunted the unparalleled pain of his mind being cleaved in half. The pain of being torn asunder by multiple bloodcurdling cries of agony, the pain of the flesh being burned from the inside out; all of it was washed away in the brief moments of the culmination of hunting skill and murderous intent. And so he craved the kill. Lusted for it, pined for it when it wouldn't come, begged for someone to be ripped and chewed to shreds by his own teeth. Nothing else mattered.

Did he wonder about his existence? There was no time for such an activity. Each passing moment was spent consumed by the joy of killing or the need of it. He used to wonder, though. Back when he was strong enough to stand the pain, back when he was sane enough to question why he had the grotesque body that was his own. Way back, when, for the first time, he had seen a mirror image of his current form rip the limbs off of intruders, back when he had consciously worked together with said mirror image, back when he still had a small part of his mind to himself to consider the morality of his actions. But no longer. No, the pain had overtaken him.

And so day after day and night after never-ending night, he flew throughout Latria, screaming and howling his inhuman howls, screeching and wailing and flapping his bat-like wings every which way, trying his damndest to seek out new intruders to kill. He had never failed with his demonic mirror-image partner to bring down the insects, ripping their flimsy limbs off their puny bodies. The kill had never eluded him. He was the greatest guardian to grace the hellish remains of the tortured tower; the most brutal, the most vicious, and most efficient. Through his thirst for killing, he had successfully defended the bloody home of failed satanic experiments for ages. His title became feared throughout the land; his reputation and influence spread far beyond the outer walls of the tower. To say he was infamous would be an understatement; his rage and unquenchable thirst for visceral fulfillment had spread until everyone who heard the name "Latria" associated the dark place with him.

But he knew nothing of the outside. His screaming mind would not allow him to think of any place besides Latria, and in the end, there was no other place that fit him. Latria was blackened with the corruption of evil, and if he had the ability to look upon himself in a clear state of mind, he would have realized that the same blackening had long since taken over his soul as well. Him and his partner, flying, searching… Always searching. Guarding. _Killing. _Whatever he was before the corruption had twisted him was lost, never to be seen again.

At times, he felt weary. Tired from all the pain, tired from the highs gotten from his frenzied murders. But the need to kill always overpowered all. The pain had to be stopped, tired or not. The cycle was the only constant in his life that his shattered mind allowed him to understand: pain, kill, pain, kill, pain… It made it impossible for him to distinguish the passage of time. Trapped in the never-ending sequence of agony, he prowled the skies with his other self, searching for the next kill.

And one night, he flew around the highest part of the tower, patrolling as usual. The pain was there (as it always was), and he was screeching (as he always did), and as he flew back down the side of the tower to search for prey, he was searching as best as his tortured mind would allow. He had seen the lone figure, walking across the bridge. …An intruder. And that meant a chance to kill! He homed in on the figure with the pain driving him forward; his hideous arms outstretched in a crazed attempt to grab the figure and throttle it and bash it against the rocks until its innards splattered everywhere.

But the intruder had a weapon, and was unfortunately very skilled at using it. As he flew over the bridge, reaching down to grab his prey, the human-like figure swiftly sidestepped.

He screamed. Howled. He howled because he knew what was coming, and screamed and cursed and rent the air with his cries. This human… This puny, pesky, disgusting little human.

The powerful swing of the intruder's axe sliced off his tail in one fell stroke.

…A minor setback. Given time, the tail would regrow as if nothing ever happened. It was a minor setback, and that was all; nothing to worry about. He turned around, flapped his wings, and crashed onto the bridge. His partner followed suit on the opposite side, effectively trapping the human between them. It would end. The fight, the pain; all of it would end. He didn't care that it would start all over again; no, he needed the release, and he needed it now.

He lunged at the human. The human rolled out of the way. His partner swung its tail back and forth, flicking giant pieces of rubble off the bridge like bread crumbs, but the human was not intimidated.

So he lunged again. The human couldn't dodge forever! He lunged, swiped, slashed, bit… But nothing would hit the nimble human.

This intruder… This untouchable intruder. The human had made its way to the brazier in the middle of the bridge, and was seemingly taunting them with its nonchalant, almost lazy swings of its axe.

He would have none of it. The pain wasn't going away, and that meant he was going to end this _now_. His partner seemed to understand; they were still on opposite sides of the bridge, but his partner had howled the same howls as him, had channeled the same rage. And they still had the human trapped in-between them. All they had to do was charge from either side, and the human would be done for. The human did not possess wings like they did, it did not possess the raw power that they did, and it hadn't experienced nearly enough combat to best them. He knew this.

He took a menacing step forward. With one last bloodthirsty look at the human, he charged, with his partner simultaneously following suit. Large, lumbering, rock-smashing strides; their heads tilted downward, their wings flattened against their back… A truly menacing sight.

And yet, the human just stood there. Taunting them, at the brazier.

He sensed something. Something was wrong, and he felt the need to stop his charge. But the pain (_always _the pain) kept him barreling forward. Pain would not stop for something as silly as caution.

The reflection of the brazier's fires glinted off the giant metal axe. The dark, billowing robes of the nonchalant intruder fluttered from the heat waves coming off the brazier. The sound of groaning prisoners in the distance served as an ambient backdrop of sound, just as it always had. Everything seemed normal. …But something was wrong.

He saw the shine of a catalyst, and by then it was too late.

The spell that called itself "Firestorm" slammed both him and his partner into the deepest parts of hell. The flames… They burned. They _burned_. They licked away at him, smothered him, covered and choked and cooked him alive. He had seen this spell before, but the one who had used it was an amateur. These flames were much, _much_ hotter. The heat increased constantly, never satisfied with its current temperatures. The flames were greedy and they wanted to burn and melt and scorch him until there was nothing left.

He didn't remember vaulting off the bridge, but he could feel a falling sensation overtake him. Burning, falling, _burning, falling. _Why was he falling?! Where were his wings?

The pain was still there. He couldn't die yet! The pain was _still_ there! He had a kill to finish!

He couldn't die. He was Maneater.

…Death. Would death make the pain disappear?

One last agonized screech, and Maneater was gone forever.

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**Endnote: **_Okay, I know... A high magic build wielding the Great Axe? And with enough stamina to dodge all of the Maneater's attacks? Hey, come on, cut me some slack! I dunno what I was thinking at the time; I blame it on the lack of sleep :P_


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